


Vanity of Vanities: All is Vanity

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Gen, Human Names Used, Mention of historical events, Mention of some historical figures, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This year, the prime minister had finally decided that they should atone for their country’s past atrocities. He arranged for Arthur to do what was necessary. Arthur accepted the demands made of him, and waited until the appointed day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanity of Vanities: All is Vanity

At precisely 8:00, the alarm goes off. Arthur wakes up groggily, ruffling a hand through his blond hair. He mumbles something and then realizes today is the day.

He gets up slowly, and puts on a green dressing gown that Francis had bought him last Christmas. It is today. He shuffles into the kitchen, and begins to boil water. He goes to the cabinet to look for tealeaves, and finds an old, elegant tin. England opens it up, and inhales slightly. The scent catches him off guard: along with the usual bitterness, there is a quaint, metallic quality. It is off putting, and he puts it back into the cupboard. He decides that he won’t make tea today, and hastily switches off the water. It is not until later that he realizes that he was smelling a memory: a memory of blood.

England puts on his old WWI uniform, because he deems it necessary. He lays it out on his bed; it is all there: the green trousers and shirt, the matching cap; he even has found his old boots, dusty after years of sitting in his closet. He had the clothes cleaned a few years ago. Normally, he tends to mend things himself, but he wanted it to be perfect. The old woman had asked if it was a costume, and how it had come into such terrible condition.

"Look at the state of the elbows and the lapels! The knees are frayed, and your hems are all worn. And is that...no it can't be. Just what happened when you were wearing this?"

Arthur just smiled, and said: "Memories".

By the time he had come to pick it up, there was a different young woman manning the register. She was younger, and spoke with a heavy Brazilian accent. She wore a daisy in her dark, thick hair, and when he asked about the old woman, she replied that she had died just a few days ago. On her deathbed she had murmured something about a lovely young man, and the cursed article tainted with wounds. At the end, she was muttering and whispering that all she could see was smoke: thousands of people calling out, and a heap of blue roses and artillery.

England thanked her politely, offered her condolences and then left.

In the present, Arthur puts on the uniform. It smells like the old woman: a whiff of licorice and the faint scent of jasmine. He begins to leave, but then thinks better of it, and runs to fetch a coat and scarf. He walks down the stairs, and opens the door of the flat building to a chilled, autumn air.

Today is the day, he thinks. Today is the day of repentance.  
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
England knew all the heroes and rulers of the country. He had met the poets and the playwrights. He had attended births and funerals. He showed up everywhere, spoke with a few people and then seemed to vanish. England was a presence that everyone knew when they saw him, and a ghost when he left.

He had been with that man in the First World War, riding on a camel besides him. At night, he whispered sweet nothings in his ear, and he had wept when he went to the funeral almost twenty years later.

He had known Elizabeth; married her even. He'd written sonnets for her, been imprisoned for her and wept by her. He was always there, and he had grieved at her death. Lonely roses he gave her: blue in color.

But now is not a time to think of rulers and heroes.

Now is the time for penitence.

This year, the prime minister had finally decided that they should atone for their country’s past atrocities. He arranged for Arthur to do what was necessary. Arthur accepted the demands made of him, and waited until the appointed day.

He reaches the doors of the British Museum. It is empty, except for the security that was policing the building. The guard at the entrance lets him in, and takes his coat and scarf.

Arthur begins to walk slowly: gallery-to-gallery. As he paces along, certain memories begin to flood in. In his mind's eye, he sees the other nations coming up, out of smoke. They walk around, looking at things.

First, there is China. The smell from the morning drifts back to him. All around him is death. Yao is hunched in a corner, his clothes torn. He is surrounded by tea and another substance. He breathes in: it's a singular smell, and one he had almost forgotten: opium. China is dazed, thin and has a glassy look in his eyes. Arthur sits down and fills a pipe. He lights it and brings it up to his lips. He becomes drowsy, and looks over at the haggard face of Yao. But it is not his face anymore. It has become a skull, with eye sockets that bore holes into Arthur's head. England starts and dashes away madly, leaving bones, tea and opium in his wake.

The next person England sees is America. America stands tall and proud in his revolutionary war clothes. He does not seem to notice Arthur as he attempts to sneak quietly by. He almost makes it past him, until the stony Alfred comes alive and pins him to the ground with his bayonet. Arthur grimaces and then it hits him. He has been here before.

Two words escape America's mouth: "Why?" and "Bastard".

Arthur sits there for a while. He can't tell the time, and does not know if he has been there for three hours or twenty seconds. He acts quickly and grabs the bayonet out of Alfred's hands. The blood darts out, and America's dead body lies on the ground. England's hands are covered in the thick, red fluid and he wipes them on his face.

It is disgusting, yet he does not mind. He has long since gotten used to the feeling.

He sees people lying in the halls, and is reminded of a poem: "Corpses are scattered through a paradise." How fitting for this walk of his.

They are all of different colored skins: natives and savages, as they had been deemed in the old days. His ancient eyes remember them, however something at the center of the people catches his eye.

India is already dead: a gun shot to the head. Spain, dressed in his old pirate clothing is barely breathing. He staggers slowly towards England, a hand on his side. He speaks to him in Spanish. He wears a blue rose crown atop of his head, and there are scratches on his face from the thorns.

"Inglaterra...you got the gold. You let all these people die."

He reaches up to scratch England's face, but his body turns to molten gold, and he falls away.

England smiles sadistically to himself. The old bastard really did love gold. He takes the crown of roses and puts it atop his head. The fragrance is overbearing, but he continues to walk forward.

The members of the Axis are tied along one side of the hall. They are all in uniform, and their heads are hung in remorse. Ludwig...no, Germany watches him coldly. Gilbert spits in his face. Feliciano and Lovino are huddled together, clutching. They don't look up. Japan's brown eyes are unseeing. England catches whispered words of treaties and false promises, and he shudders and speeds up his pace.

He passes Greece next to the Elgin Marbles. The man' arms are scratched and he crawls with a limp towards Arthur. Arthur kicks him away and continues on.

Ireland is standing on a staircase, endlessly reciting the words "all changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born." England frowns and turns to the left. The Easter Uprising is not something he likes to recall.

His paces and breathing are heavy, and he rests awhile against a pillar. He turns around, and next to him is the burned corpse of a young girl. She speaks to him, but the words crumble to ashes as she literally falls apart.

France is there, too. He is beaten and bruised: his face is moonshine. He sits on the floor of the museum, staring up at the ceiling. Francis is humming to himself: a low and sweet melody, quite out of place in the scene. He does not notice Arthur coming from behind. A quick blow to the head cuts off Francis' breath.

Arthur lies weeping for a few minutes. Full sobs shake his body, and he screams in pain. A nagging voice tells him to get up. He should not waste pity on himself.

England is almost there. He can almost see it: yes! There it is: a bright, holy sphere from which he and all other countries are made of. It is everything to him, but it is dirty: he must cleanse it.

Yet, it seems that he cannot. The voices of those he has passed and killed come rising out of the fiery sphere. He can single out the individual voices, but they all seem to blend into one.

The words are simple, and Arthur has heard them before: "We can forgive, but we cannot forget."

England slouches forward a bit, and then all goes black.  
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••  
There is a rough hand on his shoulder, and he is being shaken awake viciously.

"Are you alright, sir?” comes the voice of the guard.

Arthur shakes his head groggily, and nods. He looks at the nametag, Tom, and stares into a set of hazel eyes.

"I'm fine," he says.

The guard helps him up.

"You've been in here for about three hours, you know?" I was getting worried. A lot of people come here, and then just get lost trying to find their way out."

The guard runs a hand through his hair and shrugs, giving Arthur a sheepish grin.

"I always loved the different things you can find in this museum. I suppose that's why I started working here."

Arthur nods faintly.

"How long ago did you move from Kenya, then?" he asks.

"How the bloody hell did you know that?” replies Tom. "Are you Sherlock Holmes or something?"

Arthur smiles at that. "No," he says. "I've just met a lot of people from there, that's all."

"Well, been here about three years..."

He then proceeds to talk about his family life, his job, his boyfriend and the things he liked to do. Arthur wears an amused expression on his face. He wishes the guard a good day, picks up his coat and then walks out of the museum.

He has made his repentance, yet he still feels bogged down with the visions he saw in the museum. He resolves to give Francis and Yao a ring when he gets back to his apartment. As he feels in the pocket of his coat, his hands are pricked. His heart pounding, he reaches in and pulls out a slightly crumple blue rose. There is a note attached to it with several sentences in a slender, cursive script.

It says: "Every year, you will come. Every year, you will be reminded of the atrocities you have committed against others. Remember: we forgive, but by all means, we do not forget."

Arthur pushes the note deep into his pocket, and continues on. There is a UN meeting he needs to attend tomorrow, and he has to go pack.

He plants the rose next to an Elder tree, and he passes it every year on his way to the museum.

Somebody has erected a plaque next to the flower.

It says: “vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!! This is my first fan fiction, so I hope it turned out okay. *sweats nervously*
> 
> I quote from several poems in this story. Firstly, "Corpses are scattered through a paradise," is from ‘A Far Cry From Africa’ by Derek Walcott. The poem refers to the Mau Mau fighters from Kenya during the 1950’s.
> 
> I also used “all changed, changed utterly. A terrible beauty is born", which is from the brilliant poem ‘Easter 1916’ by W.B. Yeats. (It details the Easter Uprising against the English.)
> 
> The WWI soldier is supposed to be T. E. Lawrence, better known as ‘Lawrence of Arabia’.
> 
> I primarily used the topic of the Opium Wars on the section with China.
> 
> France and England have had a long history of conflict, as has Spain.
> 
> America…well, there is the Revolutionary War.
> 
> The English in India is another brutal history.
> 
> (You can read about all of this on Wikipedia, I am sure.)
> 
> Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. The poems belong to their respective authors. I own nothing.
> 
> (Also, if you see anything that does not make sense in terms of plot or grammar, please let me know! Thank you.)


End file.
